‘Wait, I need to come back out to make room,’ Helen advised the auxiliaire paramédical. She could see his heavy black boots, into which his trousers were neatly tucked. She’d begun to sweat, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she crawled towards him. Breathless, she made it to the opening and allowed him through. He carried a standard responder’s bag, which was slung over his chest as he got down on his knees and swapped places with her.
‘I tried to find a pulse,’ she said after him.
She remained on the floor, peering into the bleakness and felt an arm on hers.
She turned around, and Grant helped her up.
‘It’s him. It’s Hakim,’ she said.
‘Is he alive?’ he asked frantically.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied.
A second medic rushed up the stairs and past Helen and Grant to the hole in the wall with a medical bag and a collapsible stretcher and rushed in.
‘It’s tight in there,’ Helen said in French. He entered anyway and Helen was amazed that he made room.
She looked at Grant who, she could tell, felt as helpless as her.
‘He was put in here to rot,’ he said, spitting his words. ‘Bastards.’
Helen remembered the face of the man called Fudail, who’d been arrested here in this apartment. He knew what was in these walls, and he’d left him there to die.
They heard sirens, but they both knew that it would take vital minutes for a fully equipped team to get up here and then into the tiny space, to provide any emergency care that Hakim might need. If he was still alive. They’d both seen active service and what happened when medevacs were minutes, or seconds, too late.
‘Des nouvelles?’ she shouted into the airless hollow.
‘Il est vivant!’ a medic exclaimed. Grant closed his eyes and Helen bent over, holding her knees with her hands, feeling as though she might vomit. ‘Thank God.’
They both stood back and watched as a medic backed out of the space, carrying a stretcher. Neither Helen nor Grant knew how they manoeuvred their bodies into such contortions, but they got him out, and the first medic brought up the rear. They backed up against the wall and allowed the professionals to do their jobs. They both watched Hakim’s face, which was ashen and unmoving, tubes stuck out of him, and the rear medic carried a saline bag. They disappeared down the stairwell, handling the stretcher deftly. Helen touched Grant’s arm. Who knew what Hakim had endured, and indeed if he’d survive?
‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said gently, hoping it would be true. ‘Do you want to inform his father?’ Grant nodded. They both walked down the stairs, following the stretcher. Downstairs, they stripped off their forensic covers and went outside. They watched the stretcher being loaded into the waiting ambulance, which sped off, sirens blazing. Helen took the name of the hospital destination and called Sylvia. As she did so, she saw Grant make a call and figured it would be bittersweet. Khalil might still lose his son.
The dog handler followed them outside into the sunlight, petting Keekoo, and Helen put out her hand as they passed. Keekoo nuzzled her and looked up.
‘Good girl,’ Helen said. She watched them leave and walked down the steps.
Sylvia answered her phone and Helen briefed her.
‘Fecking fine job!’ Sylvia exclaimed, and Helen imagined her doing a celebratory dance in the office. They’d achieved their number one priority: finding Hakim. Now they could go after Fawaz. He’d lost his chief bargaining chip. The gloves were off.
‘But I have less exciting news,’ Sylvia continued.
‘Go on.’ Helen said.
‘The Mercedes SUV you followed out of Marseilles, when it split from the lorry, travelled north to Paris, but it disappeared between two péages halfway up the E15 between the Orléans junction and the merging of the A77. There’s absolutely no way it could have exited on that stretch of road – a helicopter is searching now. However, what we do have is the appearance of another vehicle, not filmed before the Mercedes disappeared.’
‘Our lorry was a dummy,’ Helen said.
‘Exactly. I reckon we’ll find the Mercedes abandoned and empty,’ Sylvia said.
‘So, do we have an ongoing trail on the other vehicle? What is it?’ Helen asked.
‘We’ve got the registration and we’ve traced it entering Paris. A notice is out to apprehend. It’s a Ford Transit, navy blue, darkened windows, we think driven by two men,’ Sylvia said.
‘So no ID?’
‘The camera footage wasn’t close enough, I’m afraid.’
‘And where is it now? Do we know?’ Helen asked.
‘It entered the Gare du Nord district and travelled east. We lost it on an industrial estate that has three exits, we now know that the CCTV cameras around that area were vandalised recently,’ Sylvia said. ‘It could have gone in any direction if it left the estate,’ she added.
‘Or maybe it’s still there,’ Helen said.
‘That’s what we’re looking into. I’ll take care of booking your flight to Paris. Now we have Hakim, you’re free to get your ass up there. Peter left strict instructions that should you find Hakim, then he wanted you on the first flight. Do you need to go home and grab some kit from your apartment?’
‘Yep, I’ll take a driver from here and be quick,’ Helen replied. ‘Good luck with that Transit,’ she said. Her original brief was to investigate any potential breaches of security at the summit regarding Fawaz bin Nabil. Sylvia was right: she was now free to chase the bastard. They hung up.
‘I’m going back to Paris,’ she said to Grant, who’d be been waiting while she took the call from Sylvia. ‘Interpol will arrange for Khalil to be allowed into the hospital, but he might not be
